


cause look at your face

by tsukibeam



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Frat Parties, M/M, Pining, Promptis - Freeform, background luna/cindy, bad finals week decisions, club dancing, drunken kisses, many alcohol references, ode to how pretty noct is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:51:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukibeam/pseuds/tsukibeam
Summary: It’s also definitely a bad idea, being there. It’s finals week, and he’d literally shoved aside his economics books aside in favor of getting sloshed. But then, Cindy practically dragged him out of the library so he wasn’t entirely blameless.So here he is: four shots of tequila in, eyeliner probably running in streaks over his freckles because its so stupid hot in this house, and all responsibility out the window.It’s okay though, he still has the morning to recover and the next night to regret all of his life’s decisions and cram. It’s okay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to Gorgeous by Taylor Swift and looking at some lovely gifs of Noct and then my hand slipped and I wrote this train wreck, don't mind me.

The bass line goes down to Prompto’s bones, heavy and full, and making him feel as alive as the tequila shots he had downed.

The crowd is also roaring, shouting at each other over the music and cheering each other on in one boozy game or another. It’s exuberant and it’s messy; Prompto’s pretty sure he’s almost slipped to his death at least four times, but there’s always more tequila at the other end of the slide so he doesn’t mind.

It’s also definitely a bad idea, being there. It’s finals week, and he’d literally shoved aside his economics books aside in favor of getting sloshed. But then, Cindy practically dragged him out of the library so he wasn’t entirely blameless.

So here he is: four shots of tequila in, eyeliner probably running in streaks over his freckles because its so stupid hot in this house, and all responsibility out the window.

It’s okay though, he still has the morning to recover and the next night to regret all of his life’s decisions and cram. It’s okay.

Cindy’s long disappeared somewhere, probably to woo some pretty girl. Prompto hopes it’s the blonde girl from the kitchen earlier, the one with the flawless white dress and pretty braids. He has a feeling she has some amazing skin care secrets.

Prompto though? He’s just wandering, letting the tequila guide him which...historically for him has never ended well (ditches, for one...and sprained ankles). But the room isn’t spinning _quite_ just yet and he can still feel his lips. Mostly. Kind of.

He’s definitely not thinking about his remaining finals, or how he’s still gotta pack for his trip home for the holidays, or how he _still_ hasn’t turned in his application for that graphic design internship.

He’s far more interested in the next room, the one bursting full of people, all jumping and mashing against each other. He likes the energy here, the way the music is louder and like it might actually be touching his soul. He likes that somehow, even though there shouldn’t be any more room for another person, the crowd lets him in anyway, swallows him until he’s part of this mass of dancing and writhing bodies.

Prompto’s not thinking about his finals or his other bullshit life things because this is just better. He lifts his arms above his head and lets himself get carried away by the music. Deep and pounding and roaring like a beast.

The sweat pours down him, glistens against his face and chest. His make up has melted, absolutely, but who cares. His breath is exploding out of his chest, all hot, his lungs burning but he isn’t about to stop, no way.

He could keep going like this, for an eternity if he really wanted, and he does. Twisting and spinning and moving his body to the music, to where the crowd takes him. A press here, and touch there, and his body is singing, leaning into all he can take.

Until a hand pulls him from the center of it. It’s warm and firm, attached to a slender arm that leads to a body he can’t really see, except for a streak of dark hair and an equally dark t-shirt.

Cindy would probably stomp her foot down and put a stop to this. Prompto vaguely remembers another party where she knocked a guy’s tooth out for putting a hand on her shoulder. (It’d been the greatest thing he’d witnessed at that point--until she punted another guy into a pool for him.)

Anyway, you don’t take four shots of tequila and let a stranger drag you away from the dance floor. Party rules one-oh-one and Prompto definitely follows them except, historically, when he’s letting the tequila guide him.

The stranger doesn’t have a tight hold though, despite it being firm, so Prompto could slip away whenever he wants. He doesn’t though, because a second later they stop--Prompto’s shins hit something hard and he curses at the pain but then he’s being pulled up and the ground squishes and--

He’s standing on a couch. In the middle of this frat house, in the middle of a party, someone had failed to move the couch. It was empty, except for Prompto and the stranger, and he feels high and mighty on this little island, rising a whole two feet over everyone else.

Princely is how he feels, with vast real estate where he can properly breathe and see the crowd, but that drops away when he finally looks at the stranger.

If anyone is a prince, it’s this guy because he’s probably the most beautiful person Prompto has ever seen. Like, it _hurts_ Prompto’s heart how perfect his features are. Dark hair; eyes like a swirling galaxy; full lips set in a lovely bow, begging to be touched and tasted.

Prompto’s eyes narrow on those lips. His own feel tingly just looking at them but that might be the tequila. Or it could be that he suddenly, _really_ , wants to kiss those lips. It’s his first time seeing them, has never touched them, but in his gut he already knows what they feel like--soft velvet, whispers of clouds, golden sunrises--and he’s _dying_ to experience them in a dark room away from everything.

The stranger’s mouth disappears, which he mourns for barely a second, before he feels heated breath on his ear and he realizes there are words being spoken at him.

 “Want to help me avoid an ex?”

Prompto sort of goes weak in the knees. It could be the couch--who knows how many generations of frat parties its endured--or it could be the fact that those lips are suddenly very, very close to his own now. So are his eyes and they’re peering at Prompto from beneath long lashes.

If there's ever a time to regret his melting makeup, it’s now. It’s sort unfair how beautiful this stranger is while Prompto is, literally, a hot mess. He still hasn’t caught his breath from dancing and there’s definite heat working his way through him. But that could also be the fact that the stranger looks expectant now.

Basically, Prompto isn’t really sure of a lot of things. It’s a toss up which is influencing him more right now: the tequila or the stranger’s existence. But that doesn’t stop him from saying, “Dude, I’d throw myself into Ravatogh for you.”

Apparently that’s the correct answer because the stranger’s lips tilt up into a small smile and his hands are cupping Prompto’s cheeks, fingers brushing under his skin in a trail that burns, until they’re hooking under his chin and bringing him forward.

Disbelief--that this is actually happening--stops the kiss from being sloppy and all teeth. That’s what Prompto wants though, as the heat spreads from his stomach to his toes, his hands, and every where between. He grabs onto the stranger’s shirt and pulls him closer. The couch cushions are awkward though, putting them off balance enough that Prompto has to lean back while his hips jut forward, into the stranger.

It’s the best first kiss Prompto’s had, even four shots of tequila in. He traces his tongue along the stranger’s lips, tasting gin and lemon. And then those velvet lips part and Prompto can’t help but release a moan as he explores this delicious warmth.

Somewhere out in the ocean of bodies, cheers ring out, almost lost in the throbbing music and the pounding of his own heart. The stranger pulls away, leaving Prompto’s lips cold, begging for more.

The stranger’s eyes are brighter than before as he stares into Prompto’s, like an ocean he could drown in. His breathing is heavier but Prompto feels worse off, like he just ran three marathons. One of the stranger’s hands leaves his chin and falls to Prompto’s waist, holding him against him. There’s a pretty flush spread over his face, one that probably matches Prompto’s.

Prompto opens his mouth, searching for words for a moment before deciding that no, words are overrated and he’s not done with kissing. He wants to keep the stranger breathless, wants to hear him moan and to see his lean body, feel it beneath his fingers.

“What’s your name,” the stranger asks him instead, apparently more interested in learning facts and stories.

Prompto wants to tell him that that stuff can come later, after Prompto learns about his body and if he has more than just the one freckle on his cheek. He never gets to though because his arm jerks sideways fast, yanking him off the couch and hard on his ankles.

“Hey Sweetie,” Cindy’s cheerful voice is a bucket of ice water over Prompto, “Gotta get goin’, something’s come up.”

“ _Is your hand bleeding_ ,” Prompto trips over his feet, digging his heels in the carpet because as awful Cindy’s knuckles look, sometimes there are more pressing matters. He catches the stranger’s eye, hoping he looks sufficiently guilty.

“Sure is,” Cindy chirps back, pulling on Prompto again. “Just the same old thing: Boys not knowin’ their place. Anyway, we gotta leave before he comes findin’ me…”

Cindy’s strong, so as much as Prompto resists being dragged, he still falls in step behind her. He catches sight of her tired eyes. No sign of that pretty blonde from the kitchen. He knows where this was headed: Away from the stranger, into a tub of ice cream back home, cold and alone, while Cindy rants about her own relationship status (single, cold and alone).

Prompto’s a good friend, so he follows her even as he’s craning his neck to look back at the stranger. He looks thoroughly amused as he watches the two, though strangely small, alone. So high on the couch above the dancers.

“I’m Prompto,” he shouts at him, giving a pathetic little wave that earns him another smile that shoots fire through Prompto’s stomach and heart.

Yeah, it’s fine. He’ll have tomorrow to recover and the entire next night to agonize over horrible fucking timing, like finals and Cindy. It’s fine.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol don't tell me Cindy wouldn't throw down at a party for her friends. For anyone still in school, I hope your finals went well! Thanks for reading!


	2. history repeats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I couldn't leave Prompto hanging...

Prompto passes his economics final (with more than a B).

Prompto gets the internship (and it’s doing wonders padding his resume).

Prompto goes home for winter break and comes back re-energized and ready to get on with torturing himself with another semester. Everything is business as usual. Everyone asks about his classes, then his homework, then his internship. All routine, all normal.

Like the most amazing kiss of his life hadn’t happened a few months prior.

Like it doesn’t haunt his dreams and leave his sheets a goddamn mess every morning. Like he doesn’t spend his days searching for the exact same shade of color as those eyes, or longing for velvet soft lips...and just not finding it. Not even a comparison. As if a ghost sauntered into his life and just fucking left.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little on edge, desperately in need of some kind out outlet, some sort of _physical_ release that’s _not_ his own hand, when Cindy invites him out for a night in the city sometime near midterms. Historically, a night out during a major testing period has been a Bad Idea for college students since time immemorial…

Historically, though...Prompto is not a history major. Tequila, right in the middle of his finals, had been a bad idea once...right up until he was dragged up onto a couch oasis and practically thrown himself onto a beautiful stranger.

Prompto was ready within an hour of Cindy asking him, all impossibly tight pants and even skimpier shirt, daring for history to repeat itself.

It was early as far as club outings went, barely past ten, and yet Prompto is already losing himself to the bass, the booze, the throng of people. Tequila, for luck, is coursing through his blood and he lets it guide him to the dance floor, lets it carry him away in the heat of other dancers.

Midterms and mystery guy be damned, Cindy is onto something. Bad influence, his parents would say--rescuer, he’d counter. Because here, with music and the warm press of other bodies, he feels free from the shackle of his textbooks, the student loans looming overhead, the need to impress his new bosses.

Alive. Young. Almost magical, even, with the way the club lights paint his skin a spectrum of colors.

Yearning, the kind he feels whenever he saw the lightest shade of pink, or a midnight black shade of hair, all but disappears. Dampens, under the genius that is Cindy’s impulsive decision making.

He can see her now, near the bar, leaning in close to a pretty girl with delicate braids in her blonde hair, her dress clinging to a slim figure and--Prompto stops dancing. Wobbles a bit as he squints at the girl because...because…

Prompto is pushing his way through writhing bodies, dodging elbows and grinding invitations to dance, making his way to the bar, to Cindy and her mystery girl because _she_ was there that night and some fuzzy logic inside him says that maybe, maybe she _knows_ because she was _there_.

Prompto doesn’t make it to the bar. He barely makes it halfway, even, before a hand around his wrist stops him, stops time and his heart and his _brain_. Dark hair, eyes like a swirling galaxy, lips begging for touch all flood Prompto’s vision.

This man is different from his memory in that he’s _better_ than his memory because here he is, flesh and blood and so, so beautiful that all Prompto can do is gap as every part of his body sings for this man.

“Hey.” The smile that pulls at the man’s lips is lopsided, his eyes full of delighted surprise. “Remember me?”

Prompto’s brain might be frozen, but his mouth is loose with tequila and quick with a response. “Dude, I _dream_ about your lips.” (He stopped being embarrassed by it around the fourth dream.)

The stranger’s smile tilts into something more sensuous, his eyes dim with desire. “Yeah? Could say the same about you.” He pulls Prompto to him, tugging on his wrist, placing his other hand on Prompto’s waist. “I mean _all_ of you. Been wondering that you’d feel like, hips rocking into mine…”

Had it been tempting fate, shimming into these pants, these tight pants that felt dangerously suffocating now? Possibly. Definitely, with the crop top he’d paired it with that barely brushes the bottom of his rib cage. He’s not regretting it, not as slim fingers gave a firm squeeze and, _sweet six_ , Prompto _does_ arch into him, thigh pressing against thigh in the briefest chase of sin.

The stranger looks pleased, _interested_ , as he lowers both hands onto Prompto’s waist and Prompto pulls in a sharp breath.

“Dance with me,” the stranger says, lithe body already moving, swaying, to the beat.

Prompto swallows because he wants to dance with this guy, wants to lose himself forever in the ocean that is his eyes, feel his body against his, and those fingers caress his flushed skin.

Prompto wants to taste those lips again though, the gin and lime so intoxicating, and the inside of his mouth so warm and slick. He’s been dreaming about this moment for months now, and his body _calls_ out to this stranger.

But not for the dance floor. Time is of the essence, they’ve already wasted months and--beautiful as he is, drowned in a rainbow of lights, skin glowing and eyes sparkling, Prompto needs to see him nestled in the soft darkness of a bedroom and he needs to see it four months ago.

A million questions flood his brain--where does he live; does he go to school? What did autumn smell like to him? Favorite game-- _please be a gamer_ \--what’s his most listened to song...did he lie awake at night, staring at his ceiling when his dreams pulled him back to reality? What stumbles out though, is this:

“What’s your name?”

“Noctis,” comes the reply, through smiling lips--and then there are hands in Prompto’s hair, carding through his blonde fringe, and Prompto melts into them before remembering his most important, most pressing question.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“Gods, _yes_.”

It’s Prompto’s hand around Noctis’s-- _Noctis, Noctis_ \--wrist now, as he turns to lead them off the dance floor, as he weaves them through dancers. Noctis’s hand is slick with sweat, they both are, it’s so hot, though Prompto knows part of his warmth is from the way Noctis’s eyes burn into the back of him.

They can hardly walk fast enough, Prompto barely containing his breathing, his heart, and they’ve just broken through the dance floor, can see the exit _so close_ \--when Prompto goes tumbling down, hard-- _wrong_ \--on his ankle.

“ _Shitsickles_.”

Pain shoots up through him, slicing through lust and excitement, and it’s _not going away_.

“ _Prompto!_ ” Cindy’s voice is so close, and then she’s at his side, hands reaching down for him.

“Shitsickles?” Noctis’s voice can’t seem to hold back his laughter but he does looked concerned, enough to ask, “you okay?”

Was he? Prompto wants to sink into this boozy slicked floor, wants to drown in it, never to see the light of day, to escape all these witnesses. Heat floods his cheeks and his eyes burn because--because _wow_ , he finds Noctis, things were going amazing, and then of course he’d fuck it up.

“Did you forget this dance floor has stairs?” Cindy is trying to help him up, offering her support with an arm around his shoulders and it’s working, but he’s also hissing through his teeth as weight settles on his foot.

He _did_ forget--forgot how dumb this club is, honestly, because who puts their dance floor on a raised dais and then lets a bunch of drunk people _dance_ on it?

“C’mon,” Cindy says, patient, sympathetic, as she starts leading him away. “Let’s get you home to rest.”

Home is the last place Prompto wants to be, at least with Cindy. Bed is tempting, putting his foot up and drowning himself in ice cream and some pain killers sounds excellent with each throbbing, painful step he takes but--

Prompto cranes his neck to look for Noctis, to reach back for him, and drag him out of the club. They could still have their night in the sheets, they could make this work.

Noctis does reach out, his hand ethereal under a million lights, the shadows in his face soft, understanding. But he doesn’t take Prompto’s hand. “Go, rest,” he says and instead passes Prompto a small piece of paper. “Call me.”

Prompto clutches the bit of paper like it’s a royal arm of legend, a holy grail. Like it’s the life line to his soul mate. Like it’s a mystical spell to bring him back to life. He nods, because fucked up ankle or no, at least there’s this. At least he has _this_ and doesn’t have to spend months in a melancholy funk.

Prompto follows Cindy, lets her fuss over him and lecture him and lay on the promises of ice cream. In the cab, his head tipped back against the supple leather seat, streetlights a golden glow over them, he smiles.

Here they are again, Prompto and Cindy, alone and cold as they head home after a night of dancing and tequila, bound now for ice cream. But he tightens his grip around the little slip of paper.

Even though his bed is large and empty and he’ll be entering it alone, at least he can fall asleep to the shape of the stranger’s name in his mouth, feel his tongue curl around the syllables.

_Noctis. Noctis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dumb chapter was inspired by true events, find me on [Tumblr](https://tsukibeamfics.tumblr.com/) if you want to read what actually happened...


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